Ugh. I feel tainted. Moody. It feels like no one likes me. For the first time in a very long time, I feel alone.

I just started three different entries, but didn’t finish any of them. I’m not even in the mood to write this. I’m just sitting here with the lights out, two Candellas perched on top of my desk, and the first volume of Buddha Bar resounding in the room. My head is numb, my throat dry, my cat uninterested.

This has become so bland. The same things over and over again. Where did my humour go? When did things stop changing? Maybe I need a break from this.

Tomorrow, I’ll finish this tomorrow. This is just a mood. I’ll explain when I’m not as tired. I’ll go to bed with this music on, dreaming of quaint European architecture and parties I could host to this sound.

Maybe I’ll feel better when I hit, “Publish”.

A couple emerged from two heavy doors at the National Arts Centre (Human Resources entrance) as I was on the 95 today, passing down the Mackenzie King Bridge. One was a woman, very slender, who looked as if she was in her early thirties but was probably in her late thirties. The man was what someone would consider an appropriate match, being slightly taller than her, and dressed in the same half-casual jeans-with-overcoat style.

For a moment, they stood outside the doors, appropriately adorning their shuffled coats and scarves according to the late winter weather. They looked as if they had emerged from the resolution of an emotional fight, or some very guilty sex in a broom closet.

Their first steps were almost languid, but I could tell that it wasn’t a physical exhaustion. They were pacing each other out, waiting for the other person to talk first, and their footsteps were how they subconsciously spoke to each other. It was as if they both knew that they had done something wrong. Whether it was intentional or not was unclear, but it was certain that neither person was more at fault than the other.

They continued walking together, westbound, with that slight distance between them that’s reserved for couples who are either trying to hide their physical longing for the other or trying to express their angry emotions. I could tell that the silence was comfortable, as neither of them spoke, because there weren’t any right words to be said at that moment.

I watched them in fascination as they continued down the street with their hands in their own pockets. Each of them understood exactly what the other was thinking, but were hesitant to say anything before knowing how the other felt first. When they spoke next, it would be in one-word sentences. Their faces showed how much they had been through together, and how much was at risk at that very moment.

But it was how their silence spoke volumes of how well they knew each other that made me wonder if I would ever feel the same.

While John was here, we got into a discussion about hypocrisy. Being the complex person that he is, he admitted that he sees no problem with acting in a hypocritical manner. In fact, he tried to convince me to feel the same way. “You’re letting your morals get in the way of advancement”, he would say. I don’t heed any of this advice, of course, because our mindsets, goals, and relationships are founded on two different sets of values, this being one of them. Having built the first twenty-four years of our lives on this foundation doesn’t make it difficult for us to change them, but makes us indifferent to change instead. As much as we like to consider ourselves dynamic individuals, able to adapt to a situation in the best manner possible, this is limited by our desire (or lack thereof) to do so.

In any case, I find it difficult to be a hypocritical person, and in turn, I find hypocritical people difficult. The most aggravating are those who are hypocritical critics. I don’t have a problem with people pointing out my flaws. I have them, and I admit it. It’s the first step towards self-improvement. It’s also great for gaining perspective, for learning how different people interpret things (because I know that many see problems where there are none).

I do, however, have a problem with the people who freely give criticism, when they can’t take it themselves. These are the hypocritial critics; the people who judge others past themselves, when they are the last ones who should be passing judgement on anyone. This hypocrisy may stem from something as complex as insecurity, to something as simple as upbringing (especially as a result of parents who refuse to admit fault to their children). It becomes especially important in equal (non-authoratative) relationships to recognize the barriers that get put up by such a double standard.

Funny how an authoratative relationship taught me this.

A shot of the rear entrance of Social, a restaurant I’ve only dined in once, but have passed by, wishing I was inside, many times. I like how the mood in the shot is warm, against the implied cold from the Christmas lights. One could sit here at any time of year and soak up the serenity, where a song by Sigur Rós (at night, when it’s comfortably crowded) is as relevant as a song by Edith Piaff (particularly in the fall, when the skies are grey) is as relevant as a song by Iron And Wine (during the early days of summer, when it’s still cool in the evening).

I swear I’m missing some underwear.

For the longest time, I had enough boxers to get me through the week at least, but now I find myself having to do laundry before Saturday comes around. I can’t imagine anyone actually taking them, although every time I lose an article of clothing, I always suspect the most recent ex-girlfriend first. This isn’t for any specific reason (in fact, I’m pretty sure none of them have ever actually taken anything), and is probably just a paranoia cultivated through group hug confessions.

That, and knowing how important smell can be to someone. Ashley, in particular, used to take my undershirts on a regular basis. She’d tell me to wear them for days (good thing Asian people don’t sweat), and we’d have a rotation thing going on where I’d give her a new (used) shirt when I couldn’t see her for a while. She told me that she’d fall asleep clutching them, although the smell would never last longer than a week.

Michele was different. She didn’t have any natural scent, and told me that my shirts would never stop smelling like me. I suspect that she had a much sharper olfactory sense.

Sam I could smell through the pages of a book she once gave me: a copy of Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes. She picked it up at a book sale, and read it in one day. By the end she was crying, and thought I would enjoy it. Every time I turned the page, it was like she was sitting in front of me again, coffee smell on her breath.

Louise was different still. She had a great scent that was a little sweet, under the Cool Water by Davidoff she would frequently wear. She didn’t seem to care for my natural body smell as much as the artificial “male” scents, such as the Gillette series of products. Jacky once told me that she was using a stick of the same sport antiperspirant that her ex used because it reminded her of him. When I actually saw the stick, even already knowing that it was a stick of “guy antiperspirant”, I was still surprised at how male oriented the marketing was, with high contrast fluorescent stripes and bold fonts. It looked a little odd when she put it on, holding the stick with her dainty hands.

I find that most girls are like this; they prefer the manufactured smells of an aftershave, body wash, or even deodorant. Instead, Ashley taught me to appreciate an eau de natural. I remember walking up to her house, after not seeing her for a month, and being able to smell her from outside the door. I would miss her even more just standing there, almost as if this made her ethereal presence tangible. Ever since, I’ve believed that the scents we produce are more important than the ones we put on. They’re unique to one person, and never go away.

Unlike my underwear.